No Way Out
by Grand Phoenix
Summary: They tell her she can never fly again, that her ambition will be her undoing. She will prove them wrong. No matter what it takes, the sky will belong to her again. [Sequel to All Falls Down, read it first]
1. Where Yo Head At?

**Disclaimer:** All characters and locations belong to their respective owners.

_A/N: Yes, this again. Yes, it will be finished. This time, it won't go away. Enjoy!_

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><p><strong>NO WAY OUT<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>Such a beautiful face,<br>__Such a beautiful waste, I say.  
><em>_Just when you think I'm lost you found your way.  
><em>_That little angel on my shoulder says  
><em>_Not to do those things you did.  
><em>_That little angel on my shoulder screams  
><em>'_I think I lost my way!'_

"_So take your thoughts and run away  
><em>_From a god who ain't much of a know-it-all.  
><em>_So follow me and hold your breath again 'til I say when.  
><em>_DID I SAY WHEN?"_

"No Way Out", sung by Theory of a Deadman

* * *

><p><strong>I.<br>Where Yo Head At?  
><strong>

"Nanoha, goddamn it, you're going to kill yourself!"

They're training in one of the garages of an old military base abandoned and cordoned from the public. Records scrounged from the Infinity Library date this place back to the years after the Belkan War, when the Mid-Childan government was fast becoming the dominant planetary force and mass-based weaponry was not yet outlawed. The base is a rather spacious area, containing vast stretches of runways and helipads now fallen to disrepair. It's the perfect place to teach her young friend the basic exercises in sorcery.

But not like this. Vita didn't expect Nanoha to take advantage of her freedom like _this_.

"Stop movin' around and drop down NOW!"

Nanoha…Vita knows how she got that way, but at the same time doesn't understand _why_. A year ago she'd been working on her studies, manipulating mana inside the body and out, planning live combat strategies, going through mandatory drills with handicaps that would make the toughest soldier frustrated. A year ago she'd taken her condition in stride.

But this isn't the past; this is the present, this is now, and Nanoha Takamachi – thirteen and officially a teenager – is changing into a person nobody expected her to become. Not just a dumbass, Vita thinks bitterly, but a jackass who refuses to listen to her superiors.

They should have watched her more closely, Shamal and Mary. They should have put a tracking device on the little git's ankle, wrist, wherever they put those ability limiters. They should have put some tranquilizer in it, something quick, something that would hinder her Linker Core even more (maybe a spot next to that tiny, lonely shard of metal, give it company on those sleepless, restless nights), but Vita's never heard of an ability limiter that could do such a thing. Vita's been out of the loop on current technology for the hundreds of cycles she's been sealed away in that blasted book.

She sure as hell wishes she had that kind of tech on her hands. If she had known Nanoha was going to attempt _flying_ the moment Shamal gave Hayate the go-ahead to release the limiter, then…!

Nanoha activates Axel Fin and rockets away from the Knight, back to the wind and Raging Heart aimed. The incantation for Divine Shoot goes unheard above the roar, but nonetheless the mana streams form and home in on her. Vita growls and channels magic to her feet; it provides her a boost that propels her at the Earthling like a cannonball.

Drawing closer and closer, she can see the girl's infuriating scowl conquering her face.

Vita didn't like being rough with the kid. She didn't want to have to blaze through another round of shot-based spells, get up in Nanoha's personal space, ram Graf Eisen's head against her chest and knock her back to the runway like a golf ball. She didn't want to do any of that.

But then Vita remembers she doesn't give a fuck, hasn't felt the need to give a fuck since Nanoha began defying orders five months and some days after she was able to walk again and released from the hospital. And as she tackles Nanoha to the ground and straddles her, she tells herself she shouldn't care.

"EISEN!" she cries, and with an affirmative from the Device slams it to the concrete, right above Nanoha's head. A well of mana flares around them then dissipates after a few seconds in a flutter of sparking residue. They clamp down on the girl's wrists, waist, and ankles as soon as they touch the ground.

Nanoha tries to lift Raging Heart, thrashing against her bonds. Vita's free hand latches a fistful of the kid's hair and yanks her head back, stares into angry pools of blue. "Fuckin' moron!" she yells. "The hell kind of game you trying to play at? You can't fly! Those are Hayate's orders!"

"To hell…with orders!" Nanoha forces through gritted teeth. "I'll be whatever I want to be! I don't need anyone…telling me what to do with my life, 'specially Hayate!"

"_Go ahead! Go ahead and kill yourself! Let me help you out!" _Then Vita slams the girl's head against the pavement, and does it again and again and she wants to keep on going at it until there's brain matter gumming up under her fingernails, blood on her hands, and pieces of broken bone sticking to auburn locks and a pale white forehead.

But somewhere deep down inside, so deep you'd have to sink a submersible twenty-thousand leagues to get there, Vita does give a fuck about Nanoha. She gives a fuck about the shit the kid endured during the surgeries and the physical therapy. She gives a fuck about the metal trapped in her Linker Core and all the things Nanoha wants to do but now can't because a stupid fucking shard from a stupid fucking drone had to find its way through soft, unyielding flesh and make all the dreams and aspirations come undone like a spider web meeting the ass end of a feather duster.

It takes all her willpower, but after the fourth time Vita lets go of Nanoha and stares at the river of blood dribbling down her brow. She sits still, listens for the rise and fall of breathing, and when she can't feel the girl's frame stir she begins to panic. Vita's hands fly and touch the pulse on the Earthling's neck. It's faint, but it's there. It's there.

The Knight sits up and cranes her neck back to stare past the overcast sky. She's only unconscious, Vita tells herself. She's only unconscious.

Vita wonders if Nanoha intended for this to happen.

She hopes not.

* * *

><p>"How does it look, Shamal?" Nanoha asks a few minutes later, waking up with her back to the pristine plaster walls of the infirmary and a bitch of a headache between her eyes. As an afterthought, she tacks on in a snarky tone, imitating a Swedish brogue: "Is this the end of poor ole me?"<p>

"You'll live to see another day," says the blonde-haired doctor, dabbing a sterile wipe on the cut, "but I wish you'd be more careful. Next time Vita may not be so forgiving."

"I can take her on. I could take on Signum blow for blow if I wanted to."

"Not in your condition you won't. Vita told me you were flying at full speed, when Hayate specifically told you not to. _Especially_ after the ability limiter was taken off."

"_You_ told _me_ I could never fly again," the brunette counters testily. "_You_ were the one who released the lock. Did you think I wouldn't try in the least?"

Shamal crosses her arms. "I was thinking you had the common sense not to do so, but it appears I've been proven wrong."

"I won't stay grounded. Shard or no shard, I'm going to be in the sky. I won't let anyone hold me back."

"I admire your tenacity, Nanoha, but you and I know better than anyone else it's not going to happen. You've seen the X-rays, the test results of your physicals; if you fly, there's a chance the damage you take during simulated combat will push the shard even deeper into your body and rupture your Linker Core. It may even block the flow of the coronary arteries and cause a myocardial infarction."

"A what?"

"A heart attack. Maybe sudden cardiac death, if you continue to pursue this reckless behavior. The last thing I want to do is be the coroner of your autopsy."

"Then don't. Let some random white-coat make the calls—_ah!_" Nanoha grimaces and clutches at her chest. "No, not again, please don't start," she murmurs under her breath.

Shamal sighs. "This is why we want you to listen, Nanoha. Do you want your condition to worsen?"

"No…."

"Then please, for my sake and everyone else, don't give in to temptation. I would hate to see Fate and Hayate fret because you were being stubborn. I understand how you feel."

Nanoha tilts her head to the ceiling lights and closes her eyes. "No, you don't. You don't know what I'm going through."

"You're right. I can't imagine what it feels like, going day to day with a piece of metal that can never be removed. I can put myself in your shoes, but I can't be you. It's not possible."

"I don't need your sympathy," Nanoha mumbles. "Don't need anyone's."

"I'll give it to you anyway, because I'm your friend and friends watch out for each other…even the foolish ones."

Nanoha barks a single rough laugh. "Having my skull cracked open by a midget isn't what I call looking out for each other. It's bull, Shamal. So much bull…stupid heart, stop beating so fast. I can't keep up."

"Lay down, Nanoha." Shamal eases the girl on the table, puts a hand over her eyes. "Go to sleep. It'll go away. Relax."

"That's what she said," the mage giggles, and it's a dry sound like fingernails scratching on sandpaper. "Relax and vanquish all thought. Close your eyes and forget. I'm a natural at this, you know that? I'm a-freaking-mazing."

"That's wonderful, Nanoha." Shamal presses her fingers to the girl's brow, mentally traces the reddened cut that will undoubtedly scar for years to come. "I'm happy for you."

(She makes a beautiful liar.)


	2. Lower than Low

**II.  
>Lower than Low<strong>

Friday night.

Friday nights are a prelude to monotony, of television stations reverting to their weekend schedule of classic movies and outdated sitcoms, of horses being exchanged for pack mules to pull the sun across the sky into mountains dark and ever deep. Friday nights are nights she could open the ceiling hatch in her room and gaze unblinkingly at a sky speckled with gaseous diamonds.

Not tonight.

The door hisses open and close behind her as she enters. The only light in the room comes in from the window, spilling silvery moonbeams and casting stark shadows in adjunct corners.

The gym looks so much bigger when it's empty, the silence never so still. Coming here is like walking over the graves of the dead.

She shivers. Someone—in a different time, a different world, a different universe—has tread across her plot, and its steps drag through the dirt.

She shakes her head. What a ridiculous thing to think of!

That grave's not meant to be filled. Not yet. Not by a long shot. The hour of twilight is far, far away.

_You keep that shit up it won't be!_ Vita's stern voice, and it rings loudly in the recesses of an otherwise unperturbed mind. It echoes, feels it sprint up and down her bones like a lunatic paradise. So close, she whirls around, and no one's here.

So damn hot. She dashes a hand across her forehead, smearing sweat, slick and clammy.

She hasn't even started yet.

_But I will,_ she tells herself, clenching the hand into a fist. Such a small thing, worn rough with faded scars and calluses. _I'm going to. Sooner or later, everyone's going to need me again._

(BUT WHEN?)

From the inside pocket of her jacket, she extracts a roll of athletic tape. She pulls out a strip and winds it around her knuckles of one hand, repeats the process with the other. She sets the roll down on a bench, takes off the jacket and drops it carelessly on there, too.

The heavy bag stands out like a tombstone. Its shadow stretches like a checkmark across the floor.

She clenches her hands, feels the stiffness of the tape flex and creak. Shoulders hunched forward, elbows tucked in, one leg forward. She raises them.

_(The results came in today—)_

_Thwok!_ The bag bounces away from her, swings on its chain.

_(While we were performing the operation—)_

_Thwok!_ Again, with the same fist.

_(We found something—)_

Once more, but with the other. She shifts from one foot to the other, rolls back her shoulders.

_(That should not have been there—)_

_Thwok-thwok!_ The chain rattles.

_(It was a shard of steel that a deconstruction report revealed—)_

_Thwok-thwok-thwok!_

_(To have come from the drones you encountered on your last mission—)_

Strafe to the side, and strike with an uppercut. Her shoes squeak against the floor.

_(We tried to extract it, but the attempt was too risky—)_

Jab twice with the left, jab twice with the right. Uppercut again.

_(Too much of a gamble to wager without further damaging the Core—)_

Jump, spin, lash out with a high reverse kick. Fall back down, spin again with a middle reverse kick.

Faster. _Faster._

_(While your physical injuries will heal over time your Linker Core will not—)_

Breathing harder. Louder. Twist around for a back kick.

_(While you will most certainly walk again your mana will not regenerate—)_

The bag checks against the wall, looms right for her. She raises both arms, blocks it, pushes it away. Blinks sweat from bejeweled eyelashes.

_(In short, the shard in your Linker Core has permanently stunted your magic growth—)_

A shovel hook, followed by an overhand, a wide straight that turns the hips.

_(You will never use magic—)_

_(You will never be able to fly again—)_

Never be able to fly again.

Never fly again.

_("It pains me to say this, Nanoha, but…with the shard being so close—")_

_No._

_("…to puncturing the Core—")_

_NO._

_("…you will never be able to fly again.")_

Never.

NEVER.

_NO!_

Magic flares, condensed into a screaming, spheroid aura like the heart of the world. It flies and punches through the bag. Sand explodes and gushes out from at the seams and from bursting tears.

Nanoha slips and falls.

She lays there, chest heaving for air. Her cheeks are hot and wet.

She looks at her hands sprawled out in front of her. The tape is torn, little more than tattered rags, and there is blood. Red and dark and life-giving; it shines like oil in the moonlight.

She blinks. Everything is blurry. Everywhere is leaden.

She touches her forehead to the cool tiles, and everything is dark.

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><p><em>I have to try.<em>

_I have to._

_It can't stay this way._

_It just can't._

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><p>Saturday morning.<p>

The sun climbs the horizon. Bright rays bathe the draining darkness with its meager light. The world awakens to the first strains of birdsong and the faint rumble of inner city traffic.

It is a common dawn. It is the dawn of promises and new beginnings.

Such as today.

Fate adjusts the towel around her neck and passes by the windows overlooking the hillside. Her shadow is a constant guide, ever present at the hip. The leather of her gloves creaks as she reaches up and pushes the fall of blonde hair behind her.

_Maybe I should wait,_ she thinks. _It's not even completely light outside, but knowing Arf she might get mad if I don't show up on time. _First thing in the morning, was what the familiar told her; today she would be involved in a new training regimen, one that also included Zafira to lead the exercises and mock combat drills. Experience honed and mastered from centuries of warfare and what little peacetime he had did not leave any room for error. There would be pain, plenty of it. It would be weakness leaving the body, leaving the mind, and it would be at the forefront of her thoughts as a reminder. A warning.

To stay strong.

_Well, at least Hayate will be there to suffer with me._ Her lips quirk up in a smile as she reaches the door at the end of the hall. Activating the sensor pad next to it, the entrance slides open.

One foot crosses the threshold, and then she stops. Her heart flies up and settles in her throat. "Nanoha?"

The girl lies sprawled on the floor, the breath of her body rising and falling in the deep, steady locomotion of sleep. The remains of the heavy bag cover a pile of sand like a corpse on the hill. A jacket is draped half-on and half-off the bench on their left next to a roll of athletic tape.

There are spots of dried blood by her curled hands. Dotting ruined knuckles, the tape frayed and the skin charred black.

"Nanoha!" Fate rushes to her, gets on her knees and shakes her. "Hey, wake up!"

She does, groaning, blue eyes cracking open slightly. "Wha…Fate? What are you doing here?" She braces herself and starts to push off the floor. "Where am I—" She winces and falls back on her stomach, pain fierce on her face.

"You're in the gym," Fate says, gingerly taking a hand into her own. The flesh is raw, bright red. She can see the veins of the ley lines that magic courses through every being exude a faint, bluish-purple glow. Her thumb grazes across the seared outer skin, eliciting a sharp hiss.

From her position, Nanoha looks up at what little sky she can see through the window. Blinks dopily, dazed. "What time is it?" she asks. Her voice is thick, slurring with grogginess.

"It's almost six in the morning. Nanoha," she stares at her pointedly, sadly. "These are mana burns. Second-degree, from the looks of it."

"I know what mana burns are," the other says, bitingly.

Fate sighs. "You need to watch how much mana you use. You can't keep expending it like—"

"I _know_. God, Fate, I don't need a damn lecture."

"Do you have enough potions? I can ask Shamal to put in an order if you're running low."

"There's _plenty_ of 'em. I'll take one, okay?" Then, grumbling under her breath, "'S not like it's gonna restore on its own anyway. That's for damn sure." Clenching her teeth, she lays her free hand flat against the tile and pushes up.

"Here," Fate says. She puts an arm under Nanoha's chest and together lifts her off the floor and onto their feet. She is limp, sluggish, eyes tired and half-lidded; they are the common signs of mana exhaustion. Over her shoulder, Fate glances at the heavy bag's innards. "Can you make it to your room okay?"

"What about—?" She looks at the bag and its sand. It could've come from an hourglass.

"I'll take care of it. Go take your potion before someone notices."

Nanoha nods, pulls away. "Alright. And…you won't tell anyone about this, right? This is just between you and me?"

"No, I won't tell. It'll stay that way."

She gives Fate a wan, little smile. A weighted smile. "Thank you." With a slight limp, she brushes past her through the door.

When her footsteps retreat beyond earshot, Fate turns and solemnly regards the heavy bag, the sand, and the blood.

_("Fate, do me a favor.")_

_("What is it?")_

_("Keep an eye on her for me. Out of all of us, I think you're the only person who might be able to make her see. Make her realize.")_

_("Shamal?")_

_("I'm just a doctor, and I don't hold as great a bond that you two have. She won't listen to me. She won't listen to anyone. But maybe she'll listen to you. After all, she helped you.")_

_("…But what if she doesn't? What if I can't do it?")_

_("Then she will die. But truth be told, Takamachi Nanoha died a long time ago, when the cold, wintry earth took her wings as her tithe.")_

Fate sighed and smiled a smile devoid of mirth. "What's there to tell? We don't need to open our eyes to see you as you are."


	3. Til I Collapse

**3.  
><strong>'**Til I Collapse**

She stares at the cabinet with a cross between disgust, petulance, and despair. It sits on the lowest shelf of the bookcase, its doors beckoning her to be opened. Its exterior is bland, colorless, and if it could speak it would probably mock her. "You don't have a choice, little devil," it would say. "You reap what you sew. You live with what you've wrought. It's your fault you're like this, it's your fault for being so weak."

Her lips curl back in a snarl. How she wishes she could put her fist through the damnable thing, and she would, too, if she wasn't feeling so drained.

"Your fault," the cabinet emphasizes.

She doesn't realize she's clutching her fist until she tastes the bite of steel against her palm. Nanoha winces and opens her hand, glares at the two keys attached to its ring. One is for the cabinet, the other for her bedroom should she ever be locked out for a number of reasons—the identification sensors outside the threshold malfunctions, breaks, or refuses to allow her entrance, the door gets jammed on its rails. Such convenient little tools for an inconvenient little girl.

Rage and shame bubble in the pit of her stomach.

The cabinet waits.

She scoffs and limps over to it. Forces herself to. Her legs drag behind her, weighted down with iron strain, so when she drops to her knees it's with a startling and sudden _thwump_ that shoots lances of agony up her calves and tears the breath from her lungs. Lifting her arms is like trying to swim in a sea of thick, heavy tar. Moving her fingers send icy, burning needles with each flexing muscle.

_Come on…_

_Come on…_

Her chest protests once—a familiar, clenching sensation that feels as though the muscles beneath the flesh are being pulled to their limit. It's akin to a tightened guitar string being plucked, and the instant it makes its presence known and recede the animal darkness rears up, eyes wild, fangs flashing.

"Fuck!" she spits, and it doesn't bother her that it tastes vile and bitter on her tongue like a still-warm corpse. Inwardly she laughs, manic and fearful, and the room, dammit, when did the room get so damn cold? She shivers, her arms shiver, her hand heavy—her body heavy and leaden and evaporating into steam—as its jabs the key once-twice-three times before the teeth slide home into the slot.

The charred skin of her knuckles disappears briefly as the hand stiffens, twists, and _click!_ the tumblers inside the hole give way. Twist again, see the blackness, the ghost-glow of raw mana transparent like coagulated slime, remove the key.

Her chest protests again; and again there's the urge to laugh and cry and burn holes into the cabinet with unfittingly angelic blue eyes.

Why can't it be this easy?

She drops the key on the floor, fits her fingers on the groove and slides the door open. A container of plastic bottles (not glass, never glass, because Shamal was afraid, and Fate became afraid, and why would they think she'd do go and off herself when the powers that be—or maybe just plain ole bad luck—did it for her?) sit in lonely, unnerving gloom. The liquids in each are colorless, for outside the body mana does not have a true color, for it is chaotic, the lifeblood of the world and all the universe known throughout and yet to be known. There are studies about how an individual's blood type and personality influence the color of his or her mana, but that's neither here nor there—the juice has to be taken.

Pop the cap, hear it hit the floor and it's like a bomb goes off, like an accompaniment to the constant droning of the fluorescents above. Tilt it back, drain it dry, and when the last drop hits her tongue and goes down her throat Nanoha yanks the bottle away and hurls it at the way. As always, it makes a dull, lifeless thud as it strikes off the wall. Nothing earth-shattering. Nothing heartbreaking.

Nanoha wipes her mouth with the back of a hand and refrains from spitting. Bullshit the juice has to be taken; the shit tasted like mouthwash laced with wasabi and gasoline. Still, in time, her mana would regenerate. Sluggishly. Excruciatingly….

She bodily throws herself against the adjacent wall between the cabinet and the bed, huffing and panting. Curls her legs up to her chest and wraps an arm around her knees. The shaking subside, the heaviness in her limbs lessens, drowns to a subterranean murmur in the hollows of her bones.

She inspects her blackened knuckles, involuntarily wincing not out of pain but of the inevitable scolding she would receive from Shamal, from Vita, from Hayate…hell, anyone concerned for her well-being. _I just had Fate on my case. I don't want the whole damn world joining the pity party._

She sighs and knocks the back of her head lightly on the wall's surface. "Why should I care," she murmurs to the lights. "This shit won't change anything." It wouldn't make her…It would never….

Nanoha stares at the empty bottle. Her brow knits in a half-hearted glare; if she could see herself now her expression would look more upset than angry. It would not reveal the restless prisoner chancing longing glances out the rectangular, barred window every five minutes. It would not reveal a bird hopping around its cage with its wings clipped, pecking purposelessly at its food and water with the warmth of the sun on its back.

No one who knows her would be smart enough to dig deeper and see the hole made beneath her breast, a hole beneath the heart where destiny and the sense of fulfillment all creatures yearn to feel should be.

She averts her gaze and decides to stare at the floor between her feet. Her chin falls, rests on the hollow of her chin, and closes her eyes. Breathes slow, breathes deep.

There is darkness.

There is snow.

There is cold.

There is blood.

Whose blood? My blood?

There is oil.

There is shrapnel.

Shrapnel from where? From the drones? From Raging Heart?

There is a voice, calling for her. Yelling.

There is a second voice, calling for her. Crying.

There is a third voice, calling for her. Asking her:

How do you feel? Can you walk? Can you see? Can you move? Can you count how many fingers I'm holding up? Can you follow the moving light with your eyes? Can you breathe?

Can you breathe?

Do you dare to tilt your head back towards the sky and taste the chill of the air and the omnipresent warmth of a fatherly sun on your face, in your eyes, in your fingertips, in your bones, in your heart? Do you dare to reach for the sky, as the heavens rush to force you back to gravity, to earth, to a parent that says 'you've had enough', to another that says 'just a little longer?'

Do you?

Can I?

_You can't,_ says the first voice.

_You can't,_ says the second voice.

_You can't,_ says the third voice.

_YOU CAN'T,_ say the voices. _YOU CAN'T, YOU CAN'T, YOU CAN'T._

_YOU CAN'T! _booms the voice of the shard in the Linker Core, and it is the voice of doom.

"I have to," she rasps, putting her hands over her eyes. Stifling a sob. "I have to. _I just don't know how."_


End file.
